Sunday, 21 September 2008

Friday, 12 September 2008

Monday, 8 September 2008

Today was Alice's first day back at pre-school after the summer break. As our childminder has swanned off to New york for a week (something wrong here, we haven't made it to New york yet!) I was the one doing 'first day back'. Now this is even bigger than it seems. I took it into my head 2 days ago that it was finally bye-bye dummies for Alice.

Good grief, some people are thinking - isn't Alice 3 1/2?. Yeah, she is. But something fabulous has happened in the last year or so. I have broken free from other-mummy-induced guilt. Am I the only one that succumbed to this? It started for us from the get-go with Alice. I had pre eclampsia and whilst my body coped remarkably well with galloping blood pressure, kidneys having a protein-fest and not even recognising the epigastric danger sign I was meant to call an ambulance for, Alice came out a scrawny 4lb 11oz at 38 weeks. Obviously she was a little dot. And she fed like one. Always. No sooner did I get together with other IVF new mummies than we were onto ounce-age, and nap-age, and WEIGHT GAIN. I felt such a failure, I clearly couldn't stuff more milk down her throat, and short of strapping flesh-coloured bean bags to her for clinic visits, her weight was her weight - 5% centile, all the way. I am sure this was complicated by unacknowledged and undiagnosed post-natal depression, but seeds are sown.

I then dug even deeper into this, and it reached climatic proportions with Florence. Florence could not move herself to a sitting position until she was 13 months old. Florence didn't crawl until she was 13 months old. She didn't pull up, she didn't bum-shuffle. She did nothing except sit flat on her bottom once you'd put her there. The Health Visitor confirmed my worries and referred her on for investigations into developmental delay. For anyone who knows the UK health system, referral is serious business because it's serious money. The day I found out I went online, floods of tears to talk and find support from online friends. One of whom I spoke to was very sympathetic. And then promptly sent me a video of her child (younger than Florence) toddling along and tryng to climb the stairs. I am sure those of you who have had those bizarre conversations with people who know you're struggling to conceive, but expect you to turn cartwheels with their 'I only have to look at him' pregnancies will empathise with how this felt.

A door closed in me that day. I vowed to judge my kids absolutely in their own right, to never compare and to never feel pressured into doing something just because other people think you should.

So, Saturday night, after 5000 delaying tactics, of which 'another dummy' featured high on the running order, I just quietly said 'we're giving the dummies to the dummy fairies now, Alice'. And took them. A few tears, promises of her very own make-up and off to sleep. We've had a few little wobblers (openly from her, mentally from me) but tonight the only mention of them was to 'take Florence's dummies away' (oh, feel the sisterly love).

This morning Alice was as good as gold, getting herself dressed, uncomplaining, undemanding and I took my eye off the ball. I forgot my own science rules. I ignored the silence.

I went into my bedroom to collect something and Alice is sat on the floor holding the Sudocrem tub. I quietly took it off her and happened to glance down to THICKLY COATED SUDOCREM LEGS. And carpet. And dress.

It came off her legs very easily, and luckily mostly off her dress. And off to school we went. Alice sporting her new lipstick, and very soft legs.

Saturday, 6 September 2008

Oh dear. I had another one of those bright ideas this morning. See, this is what happens when I am home from work too much.

The day promised dismal cloud, showers and blustery wind. Even dim me knew that trying to stay in and avoid it would be a recipe for lunacy, initially of the mad-playing-screaming-wrecking variety from my 2 quiet, shy, retiring flowers, and then the full-on get that nice, strappy white coat variety from me.

I know, thought I, we'll plant some spring bulbs. We'll all enjoy that. Off we gaily went to our local garden centre, and once I managed to drag limpit-like Alice away from the 'press-a-button-to-hear-a-sample-of-hippy/sea/ancient chinese/meditation/just bloody weird music we made it to pick some bulbs. Here's where I clearly forgot I am a mother to 2 energetic, VERY opinionated toddlers. I buy the biiiiiiig bargan bag - loads of varieties, and visions of a Wordsworth-esque spring in my mind we head home. Lunch and a nap and we're all set.

Frist off Alice poked half-heartedly at the turf, and when a hole didn't magically open in front of her, threw a wobbler and stalked off back into the house (grumpy from nap). Florence, very earnestly and eagerly allowed me to dig a little hole which she then filled in. Again and again. After about 30 minutes (and 2 rain showers which Florence and I steadfastly ignored) Alice relented and actually became quite helpful. Then it was Florence's turn to have a paddy. Obviously I was not meant to fill the holes until we had put the whole SACK of bulbs in, as opposed to my artistic 2/3. Alice and I were going great guns by this point, me digging, her fetching bulbs, me filling and her stamping. As I dug the next hole (we're only halfway down one side of the garden at this point) I feel something sharp on one finger, and carry on. Move onto the next hole and I raise my hand to see that finger covered in blood. Wonderful. By that point boredom has set in with both girls (there's an awful lot of garden, and an awful lot of bulbs left) so all 3 of us retire hurt.

Wednesday, 3 September 2008

Some people I work with are becoming accustomed to me moaning about my hair. or being called my children's grandmother. Or my DH's Mum.

In one conversation I gave a monologue about my grey sprinkling, how aging it was and how mine was happening earlier than anyone elses. I paused and looked up sorrowfully at my colleagues and said 'perhaps I should dye it....do YOU ever dye your hair?' Their faces were incredulous, then laughing 'OF COURSE WE DO!'.

So, today I snuck into avery quiet supermarket and appropriated a pack of semi-permanant dye 'Dark Honey Blonde'. I was feeling younger and foxier just reading the packet (and naturally, looking at the 20 year old model I would of course resemble following applying the dye).

Here's the blurb:

Long-lasting, beautiful colour full of depth, dimension and shine.

Works with your tones and highlights for the most natural colour for you.

Covers grey completely, even on the most resistant grey hair.

Healthy Shine Conditioner for vital moisture and shine.

Most resistant grey?????? MOST RESISTANT GREY?????? I think bloody not. Mine have obviously been through SAS dye-resistance training because they are blithely and merrily not only unaffected, but completely unconcerned by the assault mounted on them today. DH's verdict was 'it looks darker'. But this was seeing it in our 1930's tiffany lamp lighting. And he's male. So hardly a glowing review.

As a consequence of this I have been forced into eating mode and have consumed today:

A submarine made out of french stick, salad and beef. Trident Missle carrier, I think.

A doughnut which nearly had me passing out in ecstacy.

A Jacket potato and bolegnaise sauce the size of a small, Eastern European country. I may have even seen a couple of Russian tanks loitering around the edges - that sodding stopped them - haven't had the place you'e tried to invade EATEN in front of your eyes before, have you??!!!